2018: the year I got diagnosed with ovarian cancer...and beat the little motherfucker into oblivion. Now let me get back to making the world a kinder place, thank you very much.

Vice is the playground for morons.

This 2012 article is interesting in its sheer bullshittery:

Cancer Memoirs Are Breaking Out Like the Plague

The thing that motors cancer journalism, which makes it increasingly acceptable, even good, for hacks to tell all about the very darkest moments of their lives, is our craven culture of voyeurism. Nothing can remain private anymore, especially the bad...

Do you know why people write about their cancer?

Because it is a motherfucking trauma, you assholes!

And I ought to know.

What made my 2018 a bad year?

I keep telling you it was a horrible year, and now I will explain why if you didn’t read the title. I promised I would dish on myself; so here it goes.

It started when my mom got diagnosed with colorectal cancer. She had no symptoms, went for a routine check up, and got the bad news. She would need surgery. She took it well because after having to look after her dying mother, she was tough enough.

But then a couple of weeks later, I went to the doctor because I complained to myself about having an ingrown hair and she overheard me through the damned door. She panicked given her own condition, and wouldn’t stop nagging me until I went. The doctor knew why I was there, knew of my mother’s condition, and then, just to humour my mother, had me go get an ultrasound for my kidneys just to be “on the safe side.”

So here I was, a healthy woman with no symptoms going for a needless test…

And then the next thing I know, I get a call from the doctor, I need a blood test, and an appointment to a gynaecologist because there is a cyst on my left ovary.

I knew that was absolute bullshit. They got the results on a Thursday afternoon, tell me to go to the hospital for the test on Friday so that I can see the specialist on a Monday.

Nothing blares out, “You have cancer!” more than that.

And it was ovarian cancer. A serious, motherfucking cancer. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

It was an absolute shock. Three weeks after mom’s cancer diagnosis, came my own. No one in the family had either of those cancers, and mom is a vegetarian who was as low-risk for it as you can get for the one that she got.

They sent me for emergency surgery within two weeks. She put off her surgery until I had mine.

And it was grim. Everything blared that this was the fatal kind, and I had five years at the most. Mom did not take my diagnosis well at all. It was one tragedy too much, but while some people win the lottery twice, our family won cancer twice. Fuck that shit.

But my surgery went well. A benign tumour encased the cancer, which just started on the lining. I got it as early as you can get it. The moral of the story is to listen to your mother!

They got all of the cancer out. I needed no chemotherapy or radiation. I had a check up at six months and the ultrasound showed that I was fine as did my blood test. Footloose and cancer-free.

Mom finished her chemo. I looked after her three weeks after my surgery with my stomach still raw from the surgery. That was the hardest time of my life. I remember driving to the hospital to see her and having to walk a long distance to get there. Every step was pure agony, and I had no idea what was waiting for me when I got there. She got through it.

My oncologist started very grimly with me, and when she came to see me the day after my surgery, looked very happy. I was lucky. I wasn’t going to die.

But from being certain of life getting cut short to being back on track was not a smooth transition. You do a lot of thinking when you know you got struck with something so deadly.

But I wrote on my website the day of my surgery and continued the day I came home. My book promotion went down the drain, however. I gave interviews still uncertain if the cancer had spread or not.

So 2018 was the Cancer Year for me. There is just my mother and me, and we were both struck with a serious cancer at the same time.

When I told that to a book club meeting that featured my latest book, one of the members had the same thing happen to her: she got hit with cancer at the same time her mother had it. It is not unheard of, but extremely rare.

I remained stoic, but I did have one horrible night wondering how cruel can life be to one person. Why was it all so relentless? It was bad enough my mother got it, but for both of us? Why her? Why me? Were the gods trying to wipe us out of existence? Fuck them. How rude.

Most people would go on vacation after that ordeal: I signed up for a course at Harvard. I had no time to waste. Life is about leaving the world in better condition than you found it, and I have a mission to see through.

I have a big uneven scar on my stomach, and I wonder if I can infuse it with gold so I can Kintsugi myself. I think it would be very appropriate. Broken is better than new!

I lost an ovary for my troubles, but it gave all of its superpowers to the right one because I haven’t changed in certain regards at all. I am as hormonally-driven and red-blooded now as I was before. Go me!

I no longer live in my old house. I am in a transitional stage right now. Career-wise, I know what I want and need. I am waiting on my final mark so I can make the leap. As for my personal life, I am still musing and mulling. I have my declaration of singlependence, of course, but I need to find ways to weave things as I balance them.

After the last few years from the trauma of my grandmother’s final two years, a nasty car accident, to the double cancer battle, I went through too much. Way too much.

But I look at my wall of books with superhero figures and smile. I look at my pottery collection, antique furniture, and trophies of my achievements and know I didn’t squander my life so far.

I cannot believe I survived it all. My mother had to look after me after my surgery knowing she had cancer, and then I looked after her a couple of weeks later. Neither one of us have the same strength and fluidity thanks to that car accident, but we were soldiers and sisters-in-arms in the same bloody war that attacked us from the outside and the inside from both above and below, and left and right. The battle was for my core, and I am not giving that away. Forget it.

And fuck them all. Losers! I won, and I am going to enjoy every one of those spoils of victory. I earned them all with interest. I was stronger than I knew I was, and far more capable than most people would realize.

Yet I still love the Hives, Salvador Dali, and adore the Blue Beetle. Petite Fleur by Villeroy and Boch still rocks my world, baby!

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So if Vice is too emotionally illiterate to know why people who had cancer unleash their trauma, then let the little motherfuckers wonder. They are just dumbass wankers, anyway.

People who know ask me how it felt because they get off on my observations, and I say I must have been winning all the Go matches with the heavens because I got saddled with a really big-assed handicap this last round. I won, I’m awesome enough to be the Supreme Goddess of the Omniverse, and I have informed the otherworldly that the game is a drag and I am not playing anymore. Life is too short to screw around with bullshit like that. I proved my worth: now pay up because there is interest attached.

I am out to make paradise now, thank you very much. I am as Edenic as I am Alchemic.

So stick that in your juice box and suck it, motherfuckers.

And that is your message from…

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